By Jean Roy
Nine to five snailed hours do nothing
for the uncomfortable wedge
that my heart has become
between a rock and a hard place.
I don’t receive compensation
for the tears that I cry
so the smile I do have is the only facade
that will allow me to continue making minimum wage.
The faces of customers are blurred
and the only person my heart’s eye
wishes to view is your face.
The time seems to mock me and my suffering
because these eight miserable hours
don’t seem long enough
to torture me in my role of pretending
that I am happy to be here.
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